


The Weiner Takes It All

by untilitbleeds



Category: The Good Place (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-06
Updated: 2018-10-06
Packaged: 2019-07-27 06:22:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,363
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16213286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/untilitbleeds/pseuds/untilitbleeds
Summary: When Tahani imagined seeing Kamilah again, she imagined more tearful apologies and heartfelt promises never to let anyone tear their sisterly bond again (and, possibly in her most private fantasies, that Kamilah also begged quite prettily for Tahani's forgiveness - which she would extend, naturally, having recently gone on a journey of great personal growth, but not until Kamilah had worked for it a little bit.)She definitely didn't think there would be this much snogging.





	The Weiner Takes It All

**Author's Note:**

  * For [burglebezzlement](https://archiveofourown.org/users/burglebezzlement/gifts).



The hot dog factory is called ‘Hot Diggety Dog’. For a moment, Tahani allows herself to be charmed by the quaint idea that even demons can enjoy wordplay, but Michael explains that it is all quite literal and Janet shows her several increasingly graphic diagrams illustrating exactly what it means.

She’s distinctly less charmed after that.

No matter. Tahani is a consummate professional (or at least she would have been, if she had ever suffered some horrible misfortune that meant she needed to actually get a job) and if she can grit her teeth and listen to her dear friend Gwyneth extol the healing powers of vaginal jade eggs, she can certainly power through this.

“Yeah, no, this is a terrible idea and you’re going to get us all caught,” Eleanor says. She’s the only one out of their motley crew who is accompanying her, largely on the basis that nobody else could be trusted not to hyperventilate whenever he pondered the extent to which even holding a door open for another factory worker would make him complicit in the torture of their human clientele (Chidi), to be recognised and applauded for his innovations in human misery (Michael), or to eat the implements of torture (Jason).

They could have asked Janet but as she was still tying herself up in apologetic knots every time she needed to call someone a “butt-mouth, yeah, buttmouth because your mouth is a… butt, ya big ol’ butt”, the group felt Eleanor was their strongest candidate.

Comparatively speaking, of course.

“You don’t have to come,” Tahani hisses. She wants it to sound noble, as though she’s prepared to sacrifice herself to keep Eleanor and the others from being discovered, but even to her own ears, she seemed irritated.

“Well,” Eleanor says, reasonably. So bloody reasonably that it makes Tahani’s shoulder blades itch at the injustice of it all. “Neither do you.”

The old Tahani would have demured, would have insisted that she would never dream otherwise, but she just says, “She’s still my sister” and there’s nothing Eleanor can really say to that.

___

Tahani and Eleanor (or, Tahani corrects herself, Rhonda and Diana; as Spike Lee once told her during a particularly ruthless game of Pictionary, a true performer had to embody their character with every part of their being) present their ID passes to the guard at the gate. He doesn’t look up from his newspaper, just waves them in, and smacks a piece of gum loudly in their face when Tahani pauses to ask if any of the conference rooms are open.

“We’re running a customer satisfaction survey,” she says in Rhonda’s (quite flawless, even if she does say so herself) trans-Atlantic drawl. “You know, talk to the humans, see what they think is working well so we can ruin it, and do nothing to change the stuff they hate.”

The guard pops his gum a second time. Tahani watches a small glob of saliva land on her ID pass.

“So we’ll just talk to Kamilah Al-Jamil? If that name means anything to you--”

For what may well have been the first time in his career, judging by the dust marks inside the security booth, the guard straightens up and looks outright interested.

“No shit, the musician? I love her stuff!” He spins his swivel chair round to pick something up from the far end of his workstation, and Tahani tries very hard not to show any cracks in Rhonda’s nonchalance. It’s a copy of her second album, of course - the one that Rolling Stone magazine said was “Simply: a masterpiece” and which once had Nicki Minaj cornering Tahani backstage at the Oscars to see if Tahani wouldn’t mind giving her Kamilah’s phone number.

“I hear a lot of people do,” Eleanor says. “We’ll be sure to grab you an autograph when we’re done with all the questionnaires and torture.”

“You’re the best, Diane,” he tells her, and slides the cassette over to them. “Have her make it out to her biggest fan Gusion, yeah?”

They walk away after Eleanor and the guard hold both their hands out, thumbs up and index fingers pointing out while making ‘pew pew’ noises with their mouths.

“Even in the Bad Place, she has them all eating out the palm of her hand,” she mutters. Her sister’s monochromatic face, printed on the cassette cover, peers up at her. “I would say that this is unbelievable but I assure you, Eleanor, that exactly none of this is the least bit surprising.”

Eleanor pulls a face. “Well, they are still torturing her. So I guess they can’t love her all that much.”

“Oh, Eleanor,” Tahani says, indescribably moved. "I think that’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

___

After a quick trip to the bathroom to fix her mascara (and to run into a demon wearing coral trainers with her tailored blazer and pencil skirt; Tahani has to hide her instinctive shudder of revulsion by pretending she needs to use one of the cubicles) Eleanor brings her to a small meeting room with one peeling poster that reads ‘ _You don’t have to be mad to work here but it helps!!!!!_ ’

“They’re going to bring her through in a minute. You good, hot stuff?”

_Are you good?_

Tahani tries to nod and shake her head all at once, and settles for pressing her hands together and taking a deep yogic breath to centre herself.

There’s no more time to discuss it, though, because that’s when Kamilah enters the room.

She looks very different from the Kamilah Tahani remembers. She’s put on a little weight, which Tahani doesn’t mean to be pleased by but she can’t help but _notice_. It’s like the small fine lines that are starting to gather around her mouth and at the corners of her eyes - all those signs that her little sister is older, now. Older even than Tahani was, when she had died.

Despite all that, there’s no question that this is her sister. She still carries herself with the same energy Tahani remembers - that quality her parents had called _self-confidence_ and Tahani had called other, less polite, names, the unstated assumption that her perspective was always called for, that whatever she had to say would be listened to, and probably be rewarded with a nomination for the Man Booker prize and a prestige TV show based on it.

And as much as Tahani might like to believe that she has changed too, that she has grown and learned and become something more than the person who deserved to be sent down here too, she feels that same ball of tension deep in her gut that Kamilah has always brought out in her.

Just looking at her sets Tahani on edge. She straightens her already perfect posture, setting her jaw like some kind of bruiser looking to involve themselves in a tussle on the street corner, and tugs at her suit jacket. Her face is growing warm, she can feel it, but her fingers are cold as marble and her mouth is as dry as it was when she had that terrible hangover after Cara Delevingne’s birthday party, which she spent inventing new cocktail recipes with Margot Robbie.

 _Such_ fun.

“Hi,” says Eleanor. Slowly, Tahani grows aware of Eleanor’s kitten heels pressing into her foot, and she realises that she was supposed to say something.

She just doesn’t know what that might be.

“Kamilah,” she begins, stupidly. She doesn’t quite know what to do with her hands, or her face or her - anything, really. “I… Kamilah?”

Eleanor punches her arm, but in a supportive sort of way. "You got this, champ. I'll be right outside if you need me."

“Oh god,” her sister says, and Tahani’s nine and seventeen and twenty-three all at once, listening to Kamilah and her parents talk about Kamilah’s brilliant future, how Kamilah was destined to change the world, how Kamilah would surely usher in a glorious new artistic movement that would reshape our very understanding of the world. The sorts of things that Tahani would have gladly killed to hear, but which were all met with the same deep sigh, the rolling of her eyes, and the insistence that “ _Art exists for its own sake, mama. I exist solely to create, and to challenge. What the rest of the world does with that creation is no concern of mine._ ”

It's just Tahani and her sister, and all the years of watching her and hating and  _wanting_ flood back, like they've been there all along, just waiting for Tahani to call on them.

“Oh god,” Kamilah’s saying, with that same tired irritation, looking scornfully at her hand. After a moment, Tahani realises that she's still holding her album and flushes violently. “Another superfan? Don’t tell me you want that trash signed as well.”

In all the scenarios they discussed, all the possible ways Kamilah might have reacted to seeing her again, Tahani never considered that her sister might not remember her at all.

Whether it’s pride or shock, Tahani isn’t sure, but she can’t quite bring herself to deny it. Can’t bring herself to say anything at all, actually, even as Kamilah gives a long-suffering sigh and holds out her hand to take the cassette tape.

“Do you have a pen?”

Without looking, Tahani throws it towards the wastepaper bin. It bounces off the rim with a clatter. Kamilah’s lips twitch in amusement.

“I don’t want an autograph.”

“I can see that.”

“I don’t want anything from you,” Tahani blurts out, a lie so big that she almost convinces herself.

“Except my suffering?”

“Excuse me?”

Kamilah arches one perfect eyebrow. “What, did I ruin the surprise? Is this the part where I’m supposed to be filled with hope that things are about to change, that you might not be here to torture me after all?” She takes a step forward into Tahani’s space. “Let me guess. Your boss finally noticed that all the sausages weren’t working as well as you’d hoped and sent you to irritate me with fan questions. Have we met?”

“I’m sorry?”

“Have you tortured me before? Your face looks almost familiar.” She moves closer still, leans forward and Tahani tries not to gasp.

“No,” she says softly.

Kamilah makes a small, considering sort of noise.

Tahani elaborates, “I’ve never tortured you before.”

“Oh. Well, I suppose you do have a very common, unremarkable sort of appearance.” Kamilah glances towards Tahani’s ID badge, because that is who she is now, the sort of woman who wears ID badges and trousers with more than two pockets. “Then again, I would have remembered a name like Rhonda Mumps.”

“What’s wrong with the name Rhonda Mumps?” It’s a perfectly fine name. Certainly no _Jake Jortles_.

That earns her a familiar _tsk-tsk._ The sound is soft and airy, and it hits Tahani right in the back of her throat. It always has.

“How long do you have?” Her sister tilts her head to one side as she looks up at her, pursing her lips. They’re so close now that every word brushes against Tahani’s chin. “Are you sure you weren’t on the other side of the stuffing machine? I could have sworn--”

And then her hands are on Tahani’s jaw, turning her head from one side to the other . The sudden contact catches Tahani by surprise and she jumps back. Tahani’s knee strikes one of the office chairs. It crashes to the ground and somehow, as it does, one of the back legs clips her ankle and Tahani, already unbalanced, goes down. Her elbow bangs against the table as she falls to the ground in an undignified heap.

It’s not the pain, even though her funny bone throbs. It’s not even the surprise or her wounded pride. But something about the whole situation jars her memories of Cleveland loose: the weight of her cotton-polyester blend uniform, the sharp curve of her little sister’s smile, _Honestly?_ _I don’t really think about you_.

Her skin feels hot and raw, as though her masseuse has left the exfoliating sea salt and Indian kama oil treatment to sit for too long, and she bites the inside of her cheek so she doesn’t cry.

She can see the moment when it clicks into place, when Kamilah realises - not because her sister gasps in horror, or throws her arms around her, or even just says her bloody name.

She knows when it happens because that’s when Kamilah snorts with laughter.

“Good lord,” Kamilah guffaws. “Would you look at that? It’s _Tahini_!”

\---

It takes Kamilah a few minutes to stop laughing long enough to hold out a hand to help Tahani up from the floor, which Tahani just stares at. She can’t remember the last time Kamilah, or their parents for that matter, ever touched her. Not _on purpose_.

No, that isn’t quite accurate. She remembers her eighth birthday, how frustrated and humiliated she had been when Kamilah entertained their guests by discussing the complex geopolitics of US foreign policy with the adults and how Tahani still wet the bed with the other children. When their father decided that Tahani was too upset to stay at the party, lest she embarrass them even further, he brought Kamilah up to the dais where the cake was kept while their mother stayed with Tahani. That first touch, the weight of her mother’s hand on her shoulder - Tahani thought it was reassurance, maybe even affection, and leaned into it.

And then, of course, her mother pursed her lips, frowned, and continued to push her shoulder down. Correcting her posture, Tahani realised.

“Don’t slouch, Tahani,” her mother told her. “See how gracefully your sister holds herself.”

Tahani didn’t say anything. Across the ballroom, Kamilah met her eyes as she took her time blowing out every candle in turn.

She remembers that quite clearly.

Kamilah’s hand is surprisingly soft against Tahani’s own. Maybe that just comes from being dead, maybe hot dog grease is a wonderful moisturiser or maybe Kamilah’s hands are as immune to even the slightest imperfection as the rest of her, but Tahani always just assumed that her hands would be cracked and calloused. That somewhere between all the archery and guitar-playing and, briefly, professional wrestling, Kamilah would be left with some scar tissue, some kind of mark to prove that she wasn’t completely invulnerable.

Neither of them lets go of the other. Tahani forces herself to stop glaring at Kamilah’s stupidly smooth hands and looks up, only to find Kamilah staring at her just as intently. Then Kamilah’s touching her again, her free hand coming round to hold Tahani’s chin in place.

“It’s certainly more interesting than your usual attempts,” Kamilah tells her. “Of course it is ultimately doomed to failure, but as imitations go, you’re very close to passable.”

The last part, naturally, is said in the same manner that Tahani might tell a troupe of Zambian Girl Guides that their three-hour Nativity play was very entertaining and no, of course you would love to attend the younger girls’ show and sit through three more hours of even smaller and stickier children squeaking on recorders and forgetting their lines.

It takes Tahani a second to sift through all the different problems wrapped up in that sentence before she can decide which one she’s most offended by.

“ _Close to passable?_!”

“Oh, most of it is quite good. You’ve certainly mastered that pouting startled fawn look.” She pulls a face - her bottom lip jutting out, her eyes wide and shiny - and then goes back to squinting up at her. “That nose is far too big, though.”

Tahani squeaks in outrage and claps her hands over her face.

“She was at least three inches taller than you.”

“I’m wearing flats!”

“And,” Kamilah continues as though Tahani hasn’t said anything, “Tahani wouldn’t be caught dead with a chin-length bob.”

That much is true. Irritatingly so, in fact, because Tahani doesn’t know why her sister might know that. Why Kamilah would have ever thought about what Tahani likes at all.

Her confusion lasts long enough that Kamilah pulls back and walks over to the poster. She drags her thumbnail over the corner which won’t lay flat.

“Of course I knew it wouldn’t be long before you progressed to psychological torture.” She glances over her shoulder, briefly, but doesn’t turn around. “I mean, really, the buckets of fire ants where the ants are literally made of fire? It’s just all so _obvious_.”

“This, coming from the woman who named her first feature film after herself?”

“That was a stylistic choice, meant to highlight the essential unreality of the human condition--”

“Oh, _blah blah blah_ ,” Tahani snaps. “It’s torture! It doesn’t need to be subtle!”

After a beat, Kamilah sighs. “Well,” she says, “I suppose you _are_ the expert.”

Is that humility? A concession? Tahani doesn’t trust it: Kamilah has always had the uncanny ability to use her own ignorance as a weapon. Isn’t it _funny_ , isn’t it _quaint_ , that Tahani thinks that etiquette or what Adele _really_ thinks about Prince Charles or how to spell her own name matters? Can you imagine actually _caring_ about any of that bunk when there are so many more interesting and worthy pursuits?

“Like I said, though. This little performance won’t work on me. I’m impressed that you and your colleagues have decided to put in a little more effort, don’t get me wrong--” Kamilah croons the last part, as sweet as she always is right before she twists the knife, and then drops all pretence at softness. “But if you’d done your research, you would have known that I’ve never cared enough about Tahani for her presence to mean anything to me. Whatever you’re going for here, Rhonda - I really can’t tell if you want me to feel sad, guilty or simply annoyed at the fact I’m dead and I still can’t be free of her - then it won’t work.”

“Look, Kamilah-”

“I don't have anything to feel guilty _about_. I don’t _care_ about her,” Kamilah snarls. When she gets angry, which Tahani has seen only rarely, her eyes flash dangerously dark. “I have _never_ cared about her. Like anyone ever could! She was pathetic. _Dull_ and _vacuous_ and _pathetic_ , and--”

“ _Ohhhhh_ , because everything _you_ said was always _so_ profound? You always thought that you were so much smarter, so much better than everyone else-!”

“Oh no.” Kamilah scoffs. She holds her hand up, cutting Tahani off. “No, not _everyone_. Just Tahani, and do you know what? I was _always_ right.”

If Eleanor were still here, she would have some kind of snappy (and, doubtless, profane) comeback but Tahani’s never quite mastered the upfront and blatant kind of confrontation and her little sister has always had this way of getting into her head and twisting her up until she doesn’t know what she thinks any more.

She can feel her chin wobbling. She wants to cry, wants it so badly that her head aches from the effort of _not_ crying, but she needs to not prove Kamilah right. She needs to say something that will show her - that will make Kamilah see that she’s wrong.

Tahani doesn’t mean to. That doesn’t count for much, she knows, but it still has to be said: she only wants to make Kamilah stop, and she’s never been able to come up with the right words, and everything just feels muddled and ferociously real all at once, _distinctly middle-thermometer_.

Before Kamilah can say anything more, Tahani seizes her wrist and drags her closer, bending down to slam their mouths together.

They’re kissing. Technically. It’s nothing like any kiss Tahani has ever had before - it’s not remotely romantic, or flirty, or even all that good. There’s a distinct lack of rose petals or paparazzi. In fact, Tahani’s mouth hurts slightly from where it’s mashed against Kamilah’s teeth, but she can’t try to realign them. She can’t move. It’s just her, and her sister, and the slowly dawning horror that as soon as Tahani lets go, Kamilah is going to _destroy_ her.

Until.

Until she feels Kamilah’s lips part, ever so slightly, against her own.

Kamilah’s free hand comes round to the back of Tahani’s neck, holding her in place, and her tongue presses against Tahani’s mouth. She’s too surprised, even if this _was_ her idea, to protest, and so they kiss. They're _kissing_. And not just on a technicality, either. There are tongues and hands and Kamilah's teeth digging into Tahani's bottom lip, not gently, not gently at all.

It still isn't nice. Heaven knows there's never been anything nice between them. But _oh_ , it feels so horribly, beautifully freeing to not need to be nice.

To be _mean_.

Kamilah has always, always had this way of looking at Tahani as though she could see straight through her. As though she knows every rotten, awful inch of Tahani that she spent her whole life trying to hide. 

She was wrong, before. Oh, not about Tahani; she may well be everything Kamilah said - pathetic and dull and stupid, all of it. 

But Kamilah's not better than her.

Kamilah has never been better than her, not in any of the ways which mean anything. Granted, Tahani isn't completely clear what those ways might actually be, that's a question to resolve later, but they're both here, in the Bad Place, because Kamilah is just as rotten and awful as her.

Because they're both bad.

She shivers, mostly with anticipation, and shoves Kamilah up against the nearest wall. Her small grunt of pain makes Tahani's stomach churn. Kamilah blinks up at her, her eyes vacant, unfocused, and Tahani knows that look. She knows what she can do with that look.

This has always been  _hers_ , you see. Kamilah might have been able to steal all the other firsts that should by rights have been Tahani's - matriculating at Oxford while Tahani was still preparing for the 11 Plus, being nominated for an Emmy in the same week that Tahani was performing in her sixth form production of No Exit, getting special dispensation to earn a pilot's licence before Tahani could even drive a car - but even her furious intellect couldn't outpace biology. Tahani was the first to start wearing a brassiere, the first to get her period, the first to kiss a boy, and, with Kamilah a preteen adrift in a sea of adult students, her sister had no hope of ever catching up.

"Please," Kamilah says, and Tahani wants to frame this moment, wants to bottle this feeling and carry it with her wherever she goes. "Please," Kamilah says, rolling her hips, and Tahani presses her leg between Kamilah's thighs and uses the very tips of her fingers to trace her initials against Kamilah's collarbone.

"Tahani,  _please_ ," Kamilah says again, her voice ragged, and-

Well.

Tahani has always prided herself on her commitment to helping others, hasn't she?

\---

Tahani doesn't know how long they stay like that, snogging like- Tahani doesn't know what she could even begin to compare it to, actually. It's a while. And although she knows that it isn't the sort of thing you're supposed to notice, she is beginning to get a crick in her neck from all the leaning down, and she breaks away.

Tahani’s breathing hard (and through her _mouth_ , as if that weren’t indignity enough) but so is Kamilah. Possibly for the first time in her life, she looks rattled and the idea that Tahani could inflict even a fraction of what she put Tahani through makes her feel powerful, strong. She likes that. She likes that a lot.

Eventually, Kamilah says, "You could have just said it was really you."

"You could have just stopped kissing me," Tahani tells her, and that's true as well - so true that Kamilah doesn't even have an answer, which sends another tiny thrill to Tahani's gut. She's done it, hasn't she? Finally succeeded in turning the tables, in making Kamilah see that she isn't just a convenient punchline or an embarrassment. In showing Kamilah that she isn't the only one who can be provocative and challenge convention.

In making Kamilah _look_ at her, like a person, like someone Kamilah recognised and acknowledged and maybe even respected, just a little.

Of course, that's when Kamilah chooses to scrunch up her sleeve and use it to scrub at her lips like she's trying to remove every trace of their encounter. "Oh, Tahani," she's saying, as though she wasn't the one who escalated. As though it isn't her spit coating Tahani's lips right now. "I do hope you realise this doesn't  _change_ anything between us."

The old Tahani would have been stung by that. Would have felt crushed, would have burst into tears or run away or tried to throw a glass of 2009 Chateau Margaux at Kamilah and end up drenching their elderly grandmother. (Which, in all fairness, did only happen that one time.

And then a second time a week later with a Romanee-Conti instead.)

Instead: "Oh, Kamilah," she echoes. Just as soft. Just as sincere. "I do hope you realise there isn't anything between us to change."

She steps out into the corridor, out of her sister's life, without looking back.

\---

It's a good exit, and one that Tahani would have loved to revel in but as soon as she opens the door, Eleanor loops their arms together and power-walks them both towards the exit.

"Wow, OK, so  _hi_ ," Eleanor's chunnering, and Tahani tries to keep up. "First of all, quick question. You've never actually had a real job, like not one that didn't have a title like 'vodka ambassador' or 'spokesperson', right?" She doesn't wait for an answer. "So, here's the thing about office meeting rooms. Small thing, not all that important really, but just thought I'd mention it since apparently it's not all that obvious,  _they are not very soundproof_."

"Oh God."

"Yeah, that sounds freakishly familiar," Eleanor hisses. "Now-"

As they reach the exit, the guard looks up, sees the pair of them and immediately grabs a walkie-talkie. "They're here," he yells. "The two humans! They're-"

"Run!"

And they do.


End file.
